


heavy is the hand that holds him down

by Ponderosa



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Aftercare, Also failure to have boundaries, Anal Fisting, Black Male Character, Bottom Hercules Hansen, Boundaries, Canon Character of Color, Cock & Ball Torture, Dom/sub, Drift Side Effects, Explicit Consent, First Kiss, Fisting, Impact Play, Leather Culture, M/M, Painplay, Past Relationship(s), Punch Fisting, S&M, Safer Sex, Sex Club, Subdrop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponderosa/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fucking other pilots can get messy quick, but it happens a lot--standard fraternization rules were scrapped six months after the first commissioned Jaeger. If the Corps understood drift technology more, it might not’ve gone that way, pilots needing to be skin to skin with each other, turning so often to the only other people who could possibly understand what it was like to have a head full of someone else’s memories and sometimes more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heavy is the hand that holds him down

**Author's Note:**

> Stacker has very good boundaries in this while painslut bottom!Herc does not. Scott is also a complete dickbag, so additional warnings for emotional manipulation/abuse on his part coupled with moments of drift fuckery including a brief mention of sexual assault.
> 
> A billion thank yous to autoschediastic for the encouragement along the way, and to hobbitdragon for the read over and the hand holding. :D

It’s a warm night with a slight breeze, and the windows and neon of the storefronts light the middle of the block as bright as day. As the jeep slows to a halt, Scott twists around in the front passenger seat to skewer Herc with a look. “You know, you could still change your mind and come with us,” he says, reaching out lazily to snag Herc’s shirtfront as Herc lets himself out.

“You say that every time,” Herc says, deftly avoiding his brother’s grasp. “You know I’m going to say no.”

“So many girls and not enough leave. You need to get a little pussy once in a while before you can’t remember what it tastes like.”

Herc laughs and steps onto the footpath. He crams his hands in his jacket pockets, the pull grinding the harness hidden under his shirt into his skin. “I’m in your head often enough I doubt I’ll ever have that problem.”

“The bars are crawling with girls on holiday, you know they’d go out of their fucking _minds_ at the chance to get double-teamed by two Rangers.” Scott grins, all teeth, and tips his head at the backseat. For all his faults, he’s never been one to give up easily. “C’mon. It’d be just like the good ole days.”

Herc’s tempted, a part of him always is, and he tongues at the inside of his cheek. Chasing drunk uni girls might still be as fun for Scott as it’d been for the both of them ten years ago, but Herc’s not the same man he was before there was a ring on his finger. Taking that ring off and signing on to become a Ranger changed him that much more. Out here he’s not Scott’s wingman, and there aren’t that many ways he can carve out some spaces for himself alone.

“Just do what you always do and tell them that bastard’s your co-pilot,” Herc says, nodding at the junior mechanic behind the wheel. 

“It’s not the same, bro.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“Damn right you will. And you’ll keep your kinky fucking shit out of my head too, you cunt!” Scott calls after him.

“You don’t see what you don’t want to see,” Herc calls back. He shakes his head. In the reflection of a store window, he catches a glimpse of Scott’s precisely mirrored movement before the jeep pulls away from the curb. No matter what the head docs say, sometimes he wonders just how true it is that you can gain control over what bleeds through during a handshake. Feels like most times, the shit that blurs through his head when he’s hooked in with Scott are the ugliest parts of himself, and he’s not sure whose fault that is.

No one talks about it much, but all the pilots know: Drifting fucks you up, it’s all just a matter of how and when.

*

A hand curls into the front of Herc’s harness, drags him to his feet away from the bearded guy pawing at his crotch, and the last thing he expects when he tears his eyes off the twink on the cross is to come face to face with another Ranger. Least of all one dressed up to the nines in black leather and silver studs. Least of all--

“Stacker, how ya going. Didn’t expect this was your scene,” he says, eyeballing Stacker and following it up by plastering a hand to the man’s side. If his cock wasn’t hard already, this would do it. Hell, just watching Stacker and Tamsin come strolling off the transport last week had been enough to give him a rise. 

“I don’t recall you asking.”

So he hadn’t, but they’ve hardly seen each other or spoken since Anchorage, where they’d met and griped about their kids and ended up trading handjobs in the steam room. And even with a hand clamped over his mouth and one on his cock, he didn’t once think Stacker was kinkier than an occasional finger up the arse or a pair of cheap fuzzy cuffs from a novelty shop. And yet here he stands, flagging on the left, his gaze stuck on Herc’s mouth like he thinks it needs a dick in it.

“I came here looking to get fisted,” Herc says straight up. Stacker’s a big guy with big hands, probably doesn’t get solicited for this very often, but when the grip on his harness tightens, Herc knows that Stacker’s game. His pulse kicks into high gear and his stomach does a slow barrel roll. Oh yeah, he’s going to feel those fingers inside him before the night is out.

“Did you now.”

Fucking other pilots can get messy quick, but it happens a lot--standard fraternization rules were scrapped six months after the first commissioned Jaeger. If the Corps understood drift technology more, it might not’ve gone that way, pilots needing to be skin to skin with each other, turning so often to the only other people who could possibly understand what it was like to have a head full of someone else’s memories and sometimes more. It’s easier when you pilot with someone you’re compatible with mind and body, but that’s a rare thing, and a lot of pairs are siblings like him and Scott.

So far it’s worked out fine for the two of them. It takes a certain kind of woman these days for Herc to be interested, and Scott’s a dedicated skirt chaser. He might bitch about Herc’s preferences one moment, but in the next he’ll say he’s thankful that leaves him with the pick of the lot. For all the beds they hop inside the ‘dome, they don’t much cross paths. It’s become a bit of a running joke with the crew, actually: Don’t bother looking for the Hansen boys in their quarters, they get lucky seven nights a week, didn’t you know?

Herc lines up a little tighter along Stacker’s front--attention fixed on the way Stacker is so clearly into him. It’s strange to have a name in his head in a place like this though, where he’s come looking for something rough and names aren’t anywhere near as important as getting off. He has the feeling Stacker's thinking much the same thing, but he wasn’t the one hauling folks around tonight. "So, _Ranger_ , are going to take me up another level or are you waiting for me to call you ‘Sir’ and ask to black your boots?"

“To be honest, _Hercules_ , the way you’re getting on, I’m waiting for you to get so bloody worked up on your own that you start humping my leg like the dog you are.”

To his shame, his body betrays him with a hard jerk of his hips and a flush that heats the back of his neck as quick as wildfire. There aren’t many individuals who can pull that sort of reaction out of him. He’s been in the service since he was nineteen, rules and regs and getting told what to do morning til night is part of the job and not something he goes looking for when he wants to get fucked. He’ll exploit being a pilot, sure, always has--there’s a reason his tags are bare on his chest--but Stacker has the same sway over him here that had gotten him mewling into the man’s hand and begging to come back in Alaska. Put plain and simple, he’d get his legs up for half the men in here, but for Stacker, he’d consider going down on his knees.

“Lucky me running into you. What’re the odds,” Herc says. “You know, I’ve thought about you a few times since Anchorage.” More than a few if he cares to be truthful, but he’s a little more preoccupied with trying to tease out what it is that turns Stacker’s crank. Being cheeky isn’t losing him any points, but it isn’t winning him any either.

Stacker releases his hold on Herc’s harness. His hand spreads out warm as sunshine on Herc’s shoulder. If he’d forgotten just how long Stacker’s fingers are or how wide his palm, Herc is well and truly reminded of the fact now. His stomach does another little swoop before Stacker says, “Is that so,” and flicks a thumb over the strap crossing Herc’s collarbone.

“Sir is a hard man to forget.”

“You can use my name,” Stacker says. His mouth twitches into a smile, amusement maybe that he’s recognized Herc’s running down a list trying to get a rise out of him. “And you can lead the way, three paces forward, so I can get a nice look at that arse of yours. Reckon I’ll be tougher to forget after tonight.”

“We’ll see.” Herc says, a grin splitting his face wide. He palms Stacker’s cock, squeezes as it thickens up under leather that’s slick as oil, and wonders if he’ll get more than just a hand in him before the night is out. Herc toys with the thought as he heads for the back of the room, and casts one last glance at the twink getting flogged before taking the stairs two at a time so that the seat of his jeans pull taut. That he hadn’t gotten Stacker to fuck him before he’d had to say his goodbyes to Chuck has remained one of his biggest regrets of the year. 

Once they’re in the room, Herc’s mind snaps right back to just how much Stacker’s going to stretch him wide. “I can take a lot right quick," he says, going to the provided supplies, “so don’t hold back on me.” He snags a sheet and lays it out while Stacker grabs some gloves and does a quick wipedown of the sling.

Stacker pauses from checking his nails to glance meaningfully at Herc. “Safeword?” he asks.

“Sierra. Though in case I lose my voice…,” Herc picks up his tags by the chain and gives them a shake, “I’ll hold on to these.” He strips down eagerly, hesitating only when his socks are off and his boots are in hand; after a moment’s indecision, he leaves his boots on the floor instead of stepping back into them.

“In case you lose your voice….” Stacker repeats, contemplation written on his face.

It’s a good look on the man--the sort Herc imagines Stacker would wear sitting across a chessboard. Herc pulls his tags off over his head, and clutches the warm metal loosely in his fist as he slides into the sling. The leather is cool against his skin, prickling his arms with gooseflesh. The way his legs are forced wide as he settles in gets to him every single time, ratcheting up the anticipation even more, and when the scrape of the stool being moved into place reverberates off the high ceiling, Herc nearly moans. 

The can hitting the floor in front of the sling triggers a hot surge of excitement in Herc’s chest: flood of lust, flood of adrenaline. It feels a lot like suiting up or taking the big drop--the seemingly endless fall before the conn-pod engages--when your heart goes in your throat every single time.

“You were noisy enough when I just had my hand on your dick,” Stacker says, lining himself up between Herc’s legs. If he’d bother to glance down, he’d see the twitch of Herc’s body, the way his arse is hungry for what’s to come. “How loud are you going to be for me and the lads tonight?” 

The chains clink as Herc wraps his hands around them, and there’s a howl in his chest already. “Hurry up and get your fingers in me and you’ll find out.”

Stacker puts a hand to Herc’s chest, urging him to lay back fully. “First you tell me how you like it. Do you want to be strapped in?”

“No straps, and I like it hard,” Herc says, hands twisting restlessly around the chains. He keeps the tags in his palm pinned carefully by his smallest fingers. The other guys who have come in to watch crowd closer, some of them with their hands on their dicks already. Herc gives them an appraising glance before sliding his gaze back to meet Stacker’s. “Nothing in my mouth, same as before.”

“ _Hard_. That’s all you’re going to give me to work with.” Stacker’s gloved hand wraps around Herc’s dick, gives it one long pull that Herc tries to follow with his hips. The sling sways, and Stacker drags a touch along the inside of Herc’s thigh.

He hisses as hair catches and pulls on the glove, leaves his skin stinging. For a moment he regrets not opting to have his ankles high, but eventually he knows he’ll want to curl his hands under his knees and hold himself open. Right now, he shifts, hoping to invite another stinging caress, and says, “You’re a clever one, Stacker. I doubt you can break me, so give me whatever you’ve got.”

Turns out, when there’s not the worry about being interrupted, Stacker’s the type to tease. The third swipe of dry fingers over Herc’s spread arse works him up to a giddy sort of thrill that claws its way along his skin and leaves it a few sizes too small. Stacker hasn’t even taken a seat or dipped his fingers in the can and Herc can already feel his pulse in his skull. Each faint touch that nears his hole drives him a little more mad. His palms are damp, sliding on the chains, and everyone else in the room seems content to hang back and watch Stacker do nothing more than just _pet_ him. When finally the smack of a gloved palm high on his thigh starts chill and becomes an easy glide up and over his balls, he bucks his hips, the gasp of his breath strangled into a whine when Stacker smears his body slick everywhere but his fucking arsehole.

“What’s the holdup?” Herc asks, and the strain in his voice isn’t the sort he’s used to.

“What’s the rush?” Stacker counters, but he takes a seat now, and Herc’s entire body tenses. His knees try and pull in tight together, stopped by the chains at the bottom of the sling. He’s so damn worked up, he has to force himself to relax. Drawing in a deep breath, he does a good job of it up until the moment that the tip of a finger presses near his tailbone and he clenches up again as tight as a virgin. His body eases up fast enough when finally--thank fuck, finally--the pressure skips up to rub right on his hole.

“Jesus,” Herc says, when there’s no inward push and just the flat pads of Stacker’s long fingers stroking him. His teeth clench as he does his level best with the fitful writhe of his hips to try and get even the tip of one finger to push into him. “You’re as slow as that rust bucket you jockey.”

Stacker’s laugh is a quiet one, and he slides a thumb up Herc’s taint and under his balls, pushing them up and curling his fingers around until he’s got a grip on Herc as tight a fucking cockring. Herc lifts his head to see how hard he’s gotten, finds the dark blush and the shine of fullness in the crown do him proud. It almost makes up for how antsy Stacker’s making him.

“Looks good enough to suck, don’t it, gents?” he says, but no one seems ready to step in and get in Stacker’s way. Herc can’t blame them, not really, the man cuts an imposing figure when he’s spooning down breakfast in an old pair of trackies--black leather and boots makes him positively lethal. “Gonna put a ring on me, Stacks?”

“Only if I knock you up, ‘cause I am that good.”

“Stranger things’ve happened since K-day,” Herc says with a chuckle. He’s about to say something else when the hand at the base of his dick tightens even more, promises a bit of pain beyond the dull throb of being hard enough to cut glass, and then all the pressure vanishes, leaves him aching in all the wrong ways. “Could’ve--” Herc swallows and starts again, his voice quavering on the edge of a moan. “You could’ve squeezed a bit harder.“

“You said hard, not pain.”

“I suppose I like both,” he admits. Not everyone bothers to make the distinction, and well, he didn’t used to like pain, not like this anyway, craving it and wanting to carry it for days. Something slithers inside his chest, makes him desperate to avoid thinking about why that might be.

“Say it properly, as if you mean it, and maybe you’ll get what you want.”

Like a flipped switch that the uneasy feeling goes quiet, and Herc’s cock twitches, his body a few steps ahead of his brain. His mouth’s gone dry, tongue thick as he toys at the point of a tooth. “I’d like you to hurt me.”

“Be specific,” Stacker says, his tone more coaxing than commanding.

Remarkably it puts Herc right on point, and he shivers pleasantly as he answers: “Pinches hard enough to bruise or impact. Slap me. Anywhere.”

“You say anywhere, but a moment ago you knew right where you wanted it.” Stacker gives him a light tap to the nuts, and Herc has no time to react or make a sound that says _yes, there, harder,_ before the stretch he’s been dying for steals his breath. Stacker’s finger pushes in, curls and slips right back out, as fleeting as the smack to his balls and just as unsatisfying. He can take more, so much more. Unlike some of the guys he’s fucked, if he isn’t too tense that sex is a bad idea to begin with, he doesn’t need drugs or a slow ramp-up to make his body work like this; a couple of fingers from the get-go is nothing. He groans when finally there’s the nudge of a second finger up against his hole--Stacker’s other hand, he realises, his thumb--but the bastard doesn’t give it to him. Stacker keeps a single digit sliding into him twisting and stroking him inside and out, lighting up his nerves and making his skin shift like sand.

“Please,” he says, even though he hates the word and the way it makes him feel vulnerable. It lays him bare in all the ways that being spread out and watched doesn’t, and the faint whine in his tone sets his ears on fire. It’s a relief when there’s a sudden shadow at his side, a hand rubbing across his chest that distracts from the slow heat spreading from the desperate clutching spasms of his hole.

“Please. Please, please, please…” Stacker echoes, words a quiet mumbling sing-song as he twists two fingers into Herc. He stands up, runs a palm over Herc’s straining dick and crams his fingers all the way to the knuckle. His thumb nudges close, and the hard look on his face dares Herc to break his gaze. Herc’s mouth falls open when Stacker takes hold of his balls, squeezing lightly. When no objection comes, Stacker crushes them under his hand and curls his buried fingers. The ruthless hook of Stacker’s fingers makes him choke and struggle for sips of air. “Please what?”

“Fill me up,” Herc says, nearly a shout when Stacker releases his balls and he can speak again. His hands are on the chains when an aftershock rocks his nerves and tears a groan out of him. He blinks away the harsh sting of tears, hauls himself up to see the bend of Stacker’s wrist; the heel of Stacker’s hand nudged up under his throbbing balls; the width of Stacker’s palm sheathed in black nitrile. Shining with the sloppy mess of Crisco and lube, there’s no good reason for that pretty package not to be inside him right now. “Damnit, Stacker, I don’t need it slow. Cram that fucking hand in me before I lose my mind.”

The guy feeling up Herc’s chest tweaks a nipple and laughs as Herc twitches. “Fiesty one, your boy.”

“That he is,” Stacker says with affection. He wears a faint smile when he smacks Herc’s cock, his inner thigh, and he makes Herc cry out with a mix of pain and frustration by sliding his fingers out and leaving Herc empty again. A hard slap directly on his hole is followed by another, then another, the swaying of the sling turns what should be a stinging swat into a meaty thud. After one more smack to Herc’s leg, Stacker puts one hand on Herc’s harness to hold him in place and freshly slicks up the other, fingers sliding into him with a perfect slippery stretch. Three fingers or maybe four feed into him, over and over, twisting and thrusting and greasing up every inch of him on the inside. Stacker keeps it slow, painfully methodical, and it winds Herc up with every passing second.

He could safeword and ask the guy pinching his tits to glove up and take over, but it crosses his mind only briefly. Stacker’s not exactly treating him like he’s fragile, he’s just not pushing as hard as quickly as most men do when Herc says he’s game. There’s a lot more than avoiding barhopping with Scott that pushes him to the scene, but the reasons ride him more and more these days. He’s always been keen on being hurt, only now he questions the methods he’s grown to prefer like he questions the pull of his gaze towards smooth twinks with wide eyes and plush mouths. Sometimes the way his brother looks at him when he’s covered in slow-healing bruises makes him--

Stacker gives Herc’s harness a little shake before a light tap on the face pulls Herc back into the moment. His gaze jumps back to Stacker’s face, and he’s surprised to see the question there: _Are you still okay?_

“I’m okay,” Herc says. And he is. All that nervous energy has bled into his limbs. His core is relaxed, body taking the push and twist of Stackers fingers until it’s one hand and then the other sliding into him. It’s still slower than he needs or was looking for, and for all that his lungs feels full to bursting and each breath wants to become a curse. 

The way Stacker handles him is a reminder of what things were like after he’d settled down a bit and gotten married--when he’d been introduced to having the point of a pristine pair of heels nudged up against his taint and the taste of his wife’s underwear crammed into his mouth. Angela had never really been so patient though, sharing his eagerness for what inevitably came next: her cock drilling into his arse while her nails raised welts along his back.

He tips his head back and lets the leather cradle him. There are more hands on him now, stroking and pinching, and he can’t keep track of whether or not Stacker has the fingers of one hand or both in him. The hot brush of a hard cock near his shoulder makes him jolt, but he doesn’t need to try and find the words to say he doesn’t suck dick because Stacker does it for him. He’s being pried open, shown off, taken apart, and Stacker...

Stacker has enough control for the both of them.

Something swells inside his chest and takes the place of a tension he hadn’t known he’d been carrying. A sound rips out of him, a wordless cry that stills the press of knuckles up against his hole.

Without prompting, Herc manages to say, “It’s good, I’m okay,” before his voice breaks and another sound pours out of him. He gulps in lungfuls of air, loses each breath just as fast, and he grips his tags so tight for fear that he’ll drop them on accident.

The sling sways, doing half the work as the wedge of Stacker’s hand bumps up repeatedly against the last resistance that his body has. A hard push would do it, but Stacker doesn’t force it, and when finally-- _fucking finally_ \--the whole of his hand just slips right in, Herc swallows a sob.

The weight of the hand inside him is intense, moreso than any other time he can recall. If it’s because Stacker made him wait so damn long, or if it’s because the slow twist of Stacker’s hand is the biggest fist he’s ever taken, it almost feels better than coming. Another twist wracks him with sensation. With fingertips pressing deep and stroking at the softest, most intimate parts of him, Herc tightens up around Stacker’s wrist. Stacker slides a palm up along Herc’s thigh as he pulls, the hungry resistance of Herc’s hole fighting to keep his hand buried. Herc feels sweat gathering at his temples as Stacker strokes the muscle that clenches at his wrist, and between breaths it seems like Stacker’s in his head and knows exactly what he needs: He moves when Herc does, giving him just enough time to adjust and for his voice to return after the harsh sounds pushed out of him by the fist pulling him wide.

“That’s it. You’ve got it,” Stacker says. He pulls out, and Herc barely hears the skid of the can before arrowed fingers drill back into him, a mess of lube dripping from his hole like a sloppy cunt. For a time Stacker goes back to switching hands, takes Herc and spreads him open, shows him off, and Herc is falling apart from the inside out when Stacker asks if he still wants it hard.

“Yes,” he says. Stacker’s in him to the wrist and it’s hard to talk but he forces the word out again coupled with a nod. This time saying please is a whole lot easier. He wants to say it a thousand times over. Please and yes, and thank you-- _oh god, thank you_.

“You’re sure,” Stacker says, but it’s less of a question and more of that same infuriating teasing. His legs shake as Stacker casually fingerfucks him, and he claws for a handhold behind his knee to pull himself wider and offer up the whole of himself. He’s slicked up all along the backs of his thighs though, too slippery to catch. Someone else thankfully gets the hint and a hand clamps to one ankle and then he’s got helping hands on both legs to hold him open. Stacker’s fingers pull free, and he forms a fist, the flat of his knuckles pressing against loosened muscle. “You want me to make this hole mine?”

“Fuck. I’m ready. Do it,” Herc says, voice rising to almost a shout because hands are sliding all over him and then Stacker’s inside him again. He’s fucked open every which way, from the push in, to the slow fist that strokes him deep, to clasped hands that make for an endless slide between prying him open. Finally it’s the blunt force of knuckles that press back against his hole, impossibly wide and too much, way too much until it suddenly and blissfully isn’t.

A sharp lance of pain makes him jerk--not from his hole but from a slick squeeze on his balls. A grasping pull along his cock follows, joined by the next push of Stacker’s fist into him. It’s a smack delivered next, striking on the cheek of his arse, hard enough to leave a handprint, he’s sure, and his eyes screw tight when Stacker’s hand braces at the juncture of his thigh and each shove splitting him wide comes with more force behind it.

He’s not sure if he’s still howling every time Stacker’s fist slams into his hole, all he knows is his mouth is open and each lungful of air tastes like the sweat hanging in the room. There’s a thread holding him in place when that endless push stops, turns into prying fingers that urge him to push it out, show off his rosy red insides. He turns his head as fingers slip into him again. Four. Six. He can’t tell anymore. All he knows is he’s so damn open that it’s a miracle there’s more to stretch.

It’s good. So very good. There’s a silence in his head as Stacker fucks him open--quiet like the Drift on the best days, when the memories slide by like quicksilver, fleeting and smooth, all the jagged edges too far away to risk chasing.

Hands are on his face, and there’s more than one cock rubbing against him. All he cares about though is Stacker’s fist driving into him. Dimly, he registers that Stacker is talking to him, making sure he’s okay. Yes is the only word he still knows, and his tongue trips on it, over and over. All his limbs are trembling when Stacker’s hand sinks deeper into him, and Herc hangs in a place that’s quiet and perfect even as a part of him revels in knowing that Stacker can feel the pulsating slam of his orgasm from the inside. He gasps out another yes and chokes on a dozen more that are meant to be pleas as the steady punch of Stacker’s arm slows. He leans forward keening when slow becomes stillness, the weight of Stacker’s hand feeling like it fills his entire being; he’s not ready to be left empty. 

Stacker keeps a fist inside him, and the sway carries him higher, lets him see the ring of grease that marks how deep he’s taken it. A bit of air cools Herc’s back where cradling leather has gone slick with sweat. He shudders hard, his whole body spasming, and Stacker’s hand eases out of him, the flat of his fingers rubbing against his hole as it tries to pull tight. There’s sweat and something thicker dripping on his face, but he doesn’t feel uneasy--Stacker’s treated him right and wouldn’t have let anyone’s dick near his mouth. With a clinical sort of distance he recognizes that it’s probably his own spunk--the rest he’s sure had shot up high on his chest, but there’s no way to tell, mixed as it is with the rest of the come that’s glistening on his body. He’s still oddly unconcerned by the possibly that he’s wrong when he wipes his face off on his shoulder and asks if Stacker’s going to fuck him now.

“No,” isn’t the answer he was expecting.

He isn’t expecting Stacker to strip the glove off his left hand either and lean over him, stroke his cheek with an expression that says he’s searching for something. Herc twists his head, tries to suck Stacker’s thumb into his mouth--if that’s what he wants, he’ll do it--but Stacker tells him to stop, and slips his hand down to brace against Herc’s neck. The hand between his legs continues to move, fingertips occasionally dipping inside him between slow petting strokes. “Please?” he tries, but Stacker just gives him a smile and runs a hand over the mess slicked across his body. The smell of come is so thick he can taste it in the back of his throat.

“I’ll admit it’s tempting,” Stacker says. His gaze jumps to Herc’s cock and lingers there before following the slide of his hand back up to Herc’s neck. “But I think you’ve had enough for the night.”

Herc’s head tips back again; the heat of Stacker’s hand melts into his skin. His eyes slip shut at the press of Stacker’s thumb near the notches at his throat. “Not true,” he says. “Not true and I want it. I’d let you fuck me until I couldn’t walk, Stacker. Please.”

“I don’t doubt it. But even if you Hansen boys have a reputation for a reason, I don’t think you want me to send you back to your brother like that.”

Voice raw, body shivering, Herc rasps out: “I don’t want to go back to him at all.”

The smile drops away from Stacker’s face and then he’s barking orders. “Stay put,” gets aimed firmly at Herc when he tries to comply, and then something kinder, spoken softly as the scratch of a cheap towel runs over his body.

Gently, Stacker eases the tags out of Herc’s fist, slips the thin chain back over his head and helps him to standing. His fingers ache when he’s given a bottle of water to drink from--had he really been holding his tags so tight?--and it’s difficult to get dressed, but somehow with a few hands helping he finds himself back in his jeans, his boots on and laced. Downstairs, a coat that isn’t his own gets pulled on over his shoulders. It’s heavy and scratchy on his skin.

“We going back to the ‘dome?” he asks, when the breeze outside kicks some sense back into him. He pulls away from where Stacker’s got an arm tight around him, but a hard shiver drives him right back against the warmth of Stacker’s body. It isn’t that cold out, and yet he feels like his teeth are going to start chattering any second. Stubbornly, Herc sets his jaw and fights the sensation.

“Do you want to?”

“I’ve got two days leave.”

“Did you get a room already in town then?”

“Scotty did. Place on the--”

“I didn’t ask about your brother, I asked about you.”

Herc shakes his head and Stacker rubs his arm through the coat. Heat flashes through him, makes him oddly unsteady on his feet.

Stacker signals a waiting cab. “You’ll come with me then, unless you really want to object.”

“Are you going to fuck me?” Herc asks. A different sort of shiver goes through him at the thought of being laid out on a bed with Stacker lined up on top of him.

“We can talk about that, but you’re going to have a bath first.”

“Okay,” Herc says, and Stacker bundles him into the back of the taxi. He sinks into the seat, eyes drifting shut as Stacker’s hand settles on the nape of his neck. The drive seems to take no time at all, and between one heartbeat and the next, Stacker is steering him down the exposed balcony of an ocean-front hotel. His eye catches on the ripple of moonlight across the darkness of the water; it’s strange how much people are still drawn to the sea knowing what it spawns.

He’s given up resisting the way Stacker keeps him close, nuzzling in when they’ve stopped in front of one of the doors. Stacker’s skin tastes good, and the scrape of stubble under Herc’s lips isn’t really all that strange.

Stacker twists away from a kiss while slotting a keycard into the door. “You might regret that,” he says, in answer to Herc’s frustrated exhale. He flicks on a switch to light the space just inside the door, and holds up a hand when Herc leaves the coat puddled on the floor and tries to line up against him again. “First, a bath.”

“I’ve never kissed another man before,” Herc says, undeterred. He tugs Stacker’s shirttails free from his pants, runs his hands up those narrow hips still sporting leather to find skin. “Fucked plenty, but--”

Stacker catches his wrists and nods towards the bathroom. “But nothing in your mouth you said, same as Anchorage, so until you take that bath and until I’m sure you really want my tongue in your mouth, that’s how this is going to play.”

There’s a static crackle in the back of his skull like a voice over the horn, a vicious whisper that urges him to muscle closer, force Stacker’s back to the wall and take the kiss he’s aching for. His vision blurs and he blinks it away, feels even more off-kilter for a moment, and whatever had stirred in him goes dead silent when the firm but careful hold Stacker has on his wrists eases and Stacker’s fingers trace a path up to his elbows. “I think I’m drunk,” Herc says, the bottom of his stomach dropping out. He hasn’t anything besides a mineral water all night.

“It’s the endorphins,” Stacker tells him, and it must be a reasonable explanation because this time he doesn’t resist the nudge towards the bathroom. He doesn’t wave away the help undressing either, but he insists on a shower. He still feels loose enough that sitting in a tub of water seems just as uncomfortable as taking the steadying grip that Stacker offers him.

“Can you wash yourself?”

“I’m not a child.”

“I didn’t insinuate that you were,” Stacker responds in the same even tone that had rebuffed him only moments before. “Now that we’re clear on that: Can you wash yourself?”

“I think so,” Herc says. When he fumbles the tiny bottle of soap twice, he’s embarrassed but grateful to find that Stacker just quietly strips to his shorts and steps in to join him. He manages to say thanks aloud, the words seeming hollow in comparison to the complicated rush of emotion that floods through him as Stacker relieves him of the washcloth and lathers it up.

It takes a while before the last of the grease is off his skin and down the drain, and the water stays hot enough that he looks sunburnt when Stacker declares the job done. Herc feels a bit more steady on his feet when he turns, and a brand new sizzle of lust shoots up his spine at the sight of Stacker’s hard cock tenting the front of his shorts.

“If you tell me that you’re clean, you can fuck me without a rubber.”

“Good to know,” Stacker says, and shuts off the spray.

“I’m not like that. I mean, I don’t say that to--”

Stacker looks him straight in the eye and the rest of his fumbled explanation dries up on his tongue. “Herc, we’re not going to fuck,” Stacker says. He swings the wide glass door of the shower open, snags a plush towel off the rack and drapes it around Herc’s shoulders. It hits him all over again to see a smile returning to Stacker’s face. If he could, he’d be happy to stare at that smile forever.

“You’re hard, why waste it?”

“Trust me, you’re gorgeous, but you’re not used to feeling like this and I wouldn’t like myself in the morning. On top of that, Tam would kick me out of the pod. Now, there are two very big, very comfortable beds in that other room. You’re welcome to sleep alone or with me, but that’s all it’ll be: sleeping.”

*

Herc wakes up naturally when light starts glowing at the edge of the blackout curtains. The night before comes back to him slowly as the last of his dream leaves him, and he stretches out one leg and then the other. He’s pleasantly sore in quite a few places, but it’s not quite satisfying when his head feels like it’s buried in concrete.

Beside him in the bed, Stacker’s already awake and watching the news on his phone with headphones on. He slips them off one ear and glances down at Herc. The cool light from his phone is remarkably similar to the neon that had blazed on the walls of the club and Herc’s belly tightens up reflexively.

“How are you feeling?”

Herc massages his temples. “Like I've been stomped on by a Jaeger.”

Stacker pulls his headphones off and sets them and his phone on the nightstand. “Bit of sugar will help,” he says, rising to fetch a bottle of juice from the mini fridge. He twists it open and passes it to Herc. “Drink up.”

Herc takes the bottle and props himself up on an elbow. He eyeballs the muscles shifting along Stacker’s back as he pulls open the blackout curtains and flicks aside the gauzy fabric beneath to peek out the window. He tries to not be quite so obvious about it when Stacker’s sliding back into the bed. A lot of this is virgin territory for Herc--he doesn't usually stick around overnight. And when he does he's always the first up; if he’d gotten a name he’s already busy forgetting it by the time he’s slipping out the door. There’s never any need for morning goodbyes or fixing breakfast. There’s never the urge to inch closer and put his mouth to warm skin.

As cotton-fuzz lingers in his head, he works very hard to fight off that urge. “Thanks for this,” he says. “And thanks for last night.”

“My pleasure.” Stacker runs his gaze openly along the sprawl of Herc's body, naked except for the tangle of sheets around his legs. “Still wanting that kiss?”

Another few puzzle pieces slot into place about the night before. “Shit. I told you, didn’t I? That I’d never...” He gestures between them. Somehow saying it makes him embarrassed and his ears go warm. It’s a stupid fucking thing to be blushing about, and there’s no rational reason why he’s never had another man’s tongue in his mouth and only one taste of dick when his arse has had plenty. Herc swallows another mouthful of juice to finish off the bottle.

Stacker smirks. "You did. Wondered after the first time we met if you were a closet case."

"It’s complicated," Herc says. It’s not very; since he started piloting with Scott and opting to fuck mostly men, he was asked early on if he kissed and well, he doesn’t suck dick either so he’s stayed with it as a rule. He’s not entirely sure he’s ready to break that rule, but he’s got a competitive streak a mile wide and Stacker’s attitude isn’t doing it any favors. Herc licks his teeth--if he’s going to do this first thing in the morning, at least his mouth tastes decent. “But sure, I’ll take that kiss now,” he says, sliding the empty bottle onto the stand. “Though if this is what gets me preggers, I expect that ring you promised to be sporting more diamonds than a deck of cards.”

Stacker’s laugh brushes more of the cobwebs in Herc’s head aside, and his heart kicks into high gear with a flood of nervous adrenaline when Stacker rolls smoothly on top of him. Fuck it, he’s had the man’s arm crammed up in him, it’s silly to shy away from the brush of his mouth. But when he finds that he’s grinding his head into the pillow trying to keep a bit of distance, he grudgingly says, “Maybe I am a bit of a closet case.” Admitting that he’s got some stone-age sensibilities wired into him makes his face heat up all the more, but while there’s a bit of amusement in Stacker’s expression, there’s no judgment.

“I _am_ capable of _not_ kissing you.”

“How about-- How about we work up to it,” Herc says. He lifts his head off the pillow with effort, cheek sliding against Stacker’s. He’s felt that scrape of an unshaven face before when he’s had his knees around another bloke’s waist, but it’s the turn to put his mouth to Stacker’s jawline that makes his breathing go quick and shallow. He silently tells his nerves to fuck off and sucks a light kiss near the hinge of Stacker’s jaw. A second kiss just inches from the first triggers a hard exhale that washes over his neck and a quiver in the thigh pressed between his legs. He reacts bodily, legs falling open just enough to let Stacker’s thigh press against his thickening cock, and lays a hand on Stacker’s side.

The touch makes his whole arm tingle. It’s so very different from the night before, laced as it is with an intimacy that leaves him uncertain whether or not he’s more eager for the next kiss or more afraid. But when Herc licks against the corner of Stacker’s mouth, Stacker makes the loveliest sound: a low, hungry groan that sinks into Herc’s skin and draws him up and into the next kiss. He stumbles into it with only the briefest pause, mouth brushing across Stacker’s, who trembles above him but still lets him set the pace. It’s damn impressive; Herc’s not sure he’d have even a fraction of the same control. His heart lodges in his throat when he tips his head to slot their mouths together properly, and at the first light touch of his tongue to Stacker’s, he lets go of the sound building up in his own chest.

He twists away to suck in a much-needed breath, to laugh at himself for the hard knot that sits in his guts and tells him that he’s as wound up over this as he is turned on. “Never thought I had so many hang ups,” Herc says, sliding his arms fully around Stacker’s broad back and testing out a kiss on the slope of his neck.

“Can’t say I mind helping you expand your horizons,” Stacker murmurs. His weight settles more heavily on Herc, hard cock lined up to fuck against his hip.

Herc turns the kiss into a light bite, discovers that a nibble earns him another moan out of Stacker. He’s got his mouth on Stacker’s throat with a sucking kiss and his hips working his cock against Stacker’s thigh when there’s a knock at the door.

“Come back later,” Stacker calls out. He mumbles an apology about forgetting the sign as he lowers his head back, and Herc approximates a shrug. His chest clenches but he doesn’t flinch or pull back when Stacker’s gaze goes right to his mouth.

Herc inhales slowly, lips parting as he releases the breath. He’s ready for another taste of Stacker’s tongue, wants it very much, he’s sure--Christ, he’s inches away from rethinking his position on cocksucking--when the knock starts up again, ramping up quickly to the more insistent slam of a fist that rattles the door on its hinges.

Stacker’s already on his feet when the pounding stops and it’s Scott’s voice on the other side of the door shouting, “Oi, Herc, you in there?”

Stacker yanks a pair of jeans from a duffel sitting open on the dresser and hauls them on. His expression is unreadable as he tosses the wad of Herc’s pants his way without asking. His stride eats up the distance to the entryway. “Hansen,” he says, opening the door. “You’d better have a damn good reason to be interrupting my beauty sleep.”

Scott ignores him in favor of calling for Herc again, and Herc rolls his eyes as he does up his fly. He curses and adjusts his dick as he stands. “Fuck off. What do you want?” Herc says, rounding the bottom of the bed to find Stacker doing a very effective job of blocking Scott’s glowering face from peering in. Drawing near, Herc notices immediately where his mouth has left a mark on Stacker’s neck and it stirs something primal in him. As dark as Stacker’s skin is, the bruise is hard to spot, and Herc is shamefully grateful that Scott probably hasn’t noticed it.

Stacker’s arm stays braced against the wall as he shifts the angle of his body. It strikes Herc then just how deliberate Stacker is with his body language--he’s granting permission for Scott to talk directly to Herc, but very clearly not inviting him past the threshold. The stirring in Herc’s chest turns to heat, rich and warm and terrifying. He lays a hand on Stacker’s arm to ask him wordlessly to lower it, muscling into the space beside him and suppressing a shiver when Stacker’s thumb brushes across his lower back before hooking into the waist of his jeans.

“I was worried,” Scott says. He takes a step back, hands going into his pockets as he offers up an apology that’s wrapped up in smile meant for Herc alone. He acts as if Stacker isn’t even there, but if it’s an inconvenient truth to see Herc in the flesh with another man, he’s the one that came looking. “Called LOCCENT and asked them to find your phone when you didn’t make it back to the room last night.”

“Told you I might not be back before the arvo.”

“Did you? Fuck, mate, I was pretty wasted last night, I must’ve forgot.” Scott runs a hand over his mouth. He might be stretching the truth, might not. The sheepishness of his expression fades when he finally looks at Stacker, plainly taking his measure from head to toe. “It’s just not like Herc to go out to scratch an itch and then go home with-- Well, let’s just say if I’d known he’d hooked up with another pilot, I wouldn’t have been so worried.”

“Your concern is noted,” Stacker says, tone ominously flat. “Now if you’ll excuse us.”

Scott doesn’t take the brush-off well. He steps forward to jam his boot against the door, and the look in his eye says he’s ready to take this to blows. “Look now,” Herc says, putting himself between his brother and Stacker. Getting into a scuffle on leave wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for Scott, but this wasn’t precisely the same as throwing elbows in a bar. “You’re here and I’m awake, I’ll grab my things and we can maybe still hit the water while the tide’s good.”

“Hurry up then,” Scott says, very deliberately taking his foot away from the door.

Herc pulls Stacker back into the room, ignoring the sullen heat of the gaze that follows them. “Sorry about my brother,” he says, finding his jacket and harness and stuffing the lot into one of the hotel’s laundry bags. “Seen my shirt?”

“Might’ve missed it at the club.” Stacker pulls out one of his own and hands it over. He props a hip against the dresser and the disapproval that radiates off him is palpable.

Herc casts a glance to Scott, his silhouette a dark cloud lingering out on the balcony. He’s not happy about it either, but Scott’s his brother, and Herc knows that if Scott leaves pissed, it’s going to be some poor unsuspecting bastard who’ll pay for it. Reluctantly, Herc pulls the shirt on over his head and the feel of the fabric settling over his skin makes him regret his choice even more. Stacker’s tee feels soft and lived in and Herc runs a hand down his front. “Sent home in someone else’s clothes…. You’re making me feel like a teenager here, Stacker.”

“Stick around and we can play with that.” Stacker licks his lips and that simple gesture coupled with his conspiratorial tone gets under Herc’s skin. “Get back in bed with the radio on...make out a little bit more ‘cause you was feeling it. I’ll get my hands on that fine body of yours until you get me hot enough I come in my pants, and you can rub one out on my thigh while I push that shirt up to lick your tits.”

“Fuck.” Ears burning and dizzy from all the blood in his body rushing south, the last thing Herc wants to do is pull on his boots. But he does, and it’s a lifetime of muscle memory that keeps him from fumbling the laces. When he stands, he doesn’t look towards the door, doesn’t want to know if Scott is still watching when he braces his arms on either side of Stacker’s bare waist and leans in to kiss him, properly, just the once so he can leave here with one less regret tallied. He doesn’t hold back even though his heart is hammering in his chest and the hard dump of adrenaline in his veins makes his hands shake. It’s a thorough kiss, slow and deep, and it heats him to the very core. He pulls away with a groan, hands slipping off the wood. “Raincheck, hot stuff?”

“Tam and I are on assignment here for a month unless orders change. I’m back on duty Monday testing the new simulator runs.”

Before his will crumbles, Herc scoops up his things. He wads up the bag and tucks it under his arm. “I’ll look for you then back on base and get you your shirt back.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Stacker says, shadowing him to the threshold. He gives Scott one last appraising look but doesn’t spare him a word before tipping his head at Herc and closing the door.

“Bit of an arsehole, that one,” Scott remarks. He flicks his cigarette to the ground and grinds it out before kicking it off the balcony. The arm he throws around Herc’s shoulders feels exceptionally heavy. “The waves are probably shit by now. I’m thinking since you’re around to keep me from losing my shirt, we should go down to the pits and bet on a few fights. Treat you to some more fat cocks this weekend, yeah?”

Herc rolls his eyes at the crude pun. “I’d rather the track over the pits. And Stacker’s a nice enough bloke. His kid’s in the academy too.”

“Track it is,” Scott says, ignoring the rest. His arm slips away when they hit the stairs, leaving Herc to trail behind at his leisure. Even with the time taken to glance back at the door to Stacker’s room, the break in the rhythm of their stride doesn’t last long. Before Scott hits the first landing, without trying to match pace, Herc’s steps ring in sync with his brother’s on the poured concrete steps.

With the sun weak at his back, Herc follows him all the way down.


End file.
